


Guns and Roses

by NoxumBoots



Category: Fable 2 (Video Game), Fable 3 (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Dysfunctional Hero Group, Garth Is The Only Intelligent One Here, Hurt/Comfort, Male!Sparrow, Multi, Post Spire: Needs of Many, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, References to Depression
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-06
Updated: 2019-07-18
Packaged: 2020-02-26 21:49:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,026
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18725650
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NoxumBoots/pseuds/NoxumBoots
Summary: The Spire has given its gift back to Albion: the lives of everyone lost in its creation. And the man who had walked out afterward was thanked by everyone in the land as the most wonderful Hero there ever was. But Sparrow knew the truth: he was a horrible, selfish, conceited person, content to spend the rest of his days hidden away in Bowerstone Cemetary. Alone.He just couldn’t understand why Theresa and the Three Heroes needed him again. Fate can only be changed by one who has the willpower to do so. And Sparrow had none.Unfortunately, the Void didn't care.A Fable 2 aftermath with a less-than-perfect Hero. Will most likely undergo revision. Previously titled "A Loss of Will".





	1. Chapter 1

The love of Bowerstone was killing him, slowly.

The people graced him with their affection. Children clamored onto his legs, asking to see his sword or for him to sign a piece of paper with his name: Sparrow, like the bird. Merchants offered the best goods and asked for his opinions on deals and new fabrics and fresh foods. Men and women alike swooned over him, offering the world and everything to him just for an evening under the sheets with him. Even the murkiest parts of the city, the beggars under Bowerstone Bridge and those who sulked in shadows, nodded in respect when they saw him.

Not that he really blamed them. It was human nature, he supposed. People always had a tendency to look up to someone or something greater than them, be they gods or their next door neighbor. And many people viewed him as greater than them. Sadly.

Sparrow wanted to scream at them. Tell everyone in the city, from the oldest of wisened men to the youngest of infants, to stop being fools and open their eyes. Stop smiling at him like that, stop asking for stories, stop worshiping at his feet like he was some polished statue. Stop thinking he was the Hero they thought he was.

They had no idea what he was really like. None of them did. They just couldn’t see past the glamor of Heroic blood and strength. They couldn’t see past the grin he plastered on. They couldn’t see past _him._

You see, Sparrow was not a good person. He knew that very well. When he was younger, he’d gone through a horrible loss; terrible, in fact. His sister had been shot, a mere foot to his right, and then he’d been shot as well. Unlike his sister, though, he hadn’t died.

Ever since that day, something had been living inside of him. Something tired. Something worn and tired and oh so honest. It was a sort of truth, a clarity that he hated with his entire being. It lived with him every waking moment, reminding him of what he really was.

He was greedy, bloodthirsty, selfish, inhumane.

It leaked through everything he did. For every good deed he did for the people of Bowerstone, for the people of Albion, four more horrible deeds reared their ugly heads. For every coin given to a needy soul, hundreds were hoarded away in greed. For every prisoner saved from slavery, twice as many bandits and highwaymen lost their lives in the name of ‘safety’.

For every good thought, a legion of bad ones sprung forth.

For every righteous path, a sickening temptation.

At first, he tried very hard to convince himself that he was good. That he was just overreacting or being ignorant of the good. When that failed, and he found himself absolutely certain of his horrible nature, then he tried to become a good person. He helped everyone and anyone, gave his money freely, and spent his time on and for as many people as possible. And when that failed, he just sort of...gave up, and accepted himself for what he really was. Sparrow wasn’t a quitter. If someone needed help, he would help them with everything he had. If he was locked in a Spire for ten years, he would survive it. If he was shot out a window, then by golly he’d recover and go after the man who shot him, you can bet your ass on it. But this sort of giving up...it came slowly. Gently. Like the cold embrace of death upon him.

The days got both longer and shorter at the same time. Each moment seemed to crawl, and yet if he so much as blinked, hours would fly out of his grip. He found that some days, he didn’t mind losing time, so the day would come to an end sooner. Other days, he wished he had more time because everything was going far too fast and it made him so dizzy.

No matter the day, though, it was always big. It was always dull. It was always dreary. It was always demanding. It was always horrible. It was always...predictable. Talk, smile, walk, help, eat, leave, sleep.

Some days, he couldn’t even convince himself to get up and do the day. He’d just stay curled up in the sheets, floating in and out of consciousness, willing himself to feel nothing. He felt cold often, and sore, so soft blankets felt nice on his dead body. Besides, when he was alone, he didn’t need to smile or do anything good to mask his sinking heart. It was a sort of comfort. It was a place to be himself; and by himself, he meant grey. Tired. Loathsome. Thoughtful.

It was on days like those that he missed his dog. The furry, wiggly, warm thing was often his companion when he slept, and now...there was nobody. He was truly alone. All that was left was a rubber ball and bittersweet memories. All the more reason to stay in bed and remember them.

If he did get up, there were people to help. He didn’t have much of an appetite these days, so he often just set out after pulling on his boots. There were always slaves to free, bandits to capture, monsters to slaughter. People to help. There always seemed to be more to do, more to complete. He did his best, he really did, but often his heart wasn’t in it. What a horrible thing, to be half-hearted about saving innocent lives. What a terrible Hero.

And, as a Hero, he was expected to ‘talk’ to people. He was a quiet man, but he could express himself in different ways. He knew sign language, he could make the most convincing expressions, and he was smart enough to know how to make a point to someone without speaking. People in Bowerstone wanted to see him, wanted to talk to him and see him grin. So he did. He smiled, encouraged, and faked interest. He put on expressions at the right time, and he acted as normal as normal could be. Acted happy.

They didn’t know that. Nobody knew that, besides him. He was good at hiding the bad thoughts and masking his greed with generosity. He’d grown good at smiling as well. He knew exactly when to, and how wide, and for how long. He also knew when to frown or look confused, or excited. He was good at masks. Or maybe everyone was just really stupid.

Nobody knew. Nobody knew who he really was. What he felt. What he thought. Nobody ever had, and nobody ever would. Albion needed a Hero, a real one: a shiny, strong, and always-smiling Hero who could save kidnapped children from hobbes and help women safely through the alleys when the sun set. If they saw what he really was- a broken, grey, hollow man- they’d hate him. He knew it.

Albion needed a Hero. Even if that Hero was a liar.

 

* * *

 

The Guild Seal came to life on a bad day. It was in a drawer, under a journal, next to many other things he didn’t want to look at, next to his bed. He wasn’t sure what time it had been; the drapes were closed, and he couldn’t be bothered to look at a clock at the time. All he knew was that he was uncomfortably drifting in and out of his thoughts, and had already dozed off a few times before this. 

He almost didn’t notice the Seal activating, but he looked up just in time to see the glow emitting from the drawer. He sluggishly reached his arm out from under the covers, opening the drawer with a clumsy yank. His worn fingers rummaged around for a bit, before it brought out the Seal. Its soft glow was almost warm to him, humming softly.

He wasn’t quite prepared for Theresa to speak to him through it.

_“Hello, Little Sparrow,”_ she said, her voice carrying through the Guild Seal just a little too loud.

He blinked, trying to think of what to say. The sound of her voice might’ve been enough to spring tears up if he hadn’t felt so numb at the moment. Either way, his throat was dry and closed up, so he couldn’t speak right away.

_“It has been some time. How are you feeling?_

He couldn’t tell if she was being courteous, or could somehow sense his current mood. Either way, he lied, voice croaking slightly. “Good. I’m doing alright.”

_“I’m glad to hear it.”_ No concern. _“I came to give you a notice for preparation; you will be having visitors soon. Hammer and Garth.”_

The names made something stir inside him, something that had laid dormant for a while now. Maybe longing. Sister Hannah and Garth, coming to visit? They hadn’t even contacted him over the past...however many years it had been. Not even once. “Why?”

_“You will see soon enough.”_

And with that, the Guild Seal fell silent. He let it slip from his hand, landing with a _plonk_ onto the floor. What had just happened? Theresa says hello after all this time, only to tell him that Hammer and Garth are coming, for some reason or another. But why? For what?

They needed him. THAT was why. Theresa needed him for some other Heroic deed, and by extension, so did the two other Heroes of Strength and Will. A bitter laugh escaped him. Of course they did. Wasn’t that all people needed him for nowadays? Help? Deeds? His persona of perfection?

His chest felt heavy. He rolled over, looking up at the ceiling. Well, help and deeds aside, he did have a persona to uphold. And visitors to attend to, apparently. So, using all of his strength, he sat up to begin preparations for two guests.

He had a bad feeling about this.

  
  
  
  


 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

Oh, how the tables had turned.

Gunpowder smoke filled the air. Reaver took cover, waiting for the barrage to pause, before leaning out from behind the crate he’d stowed behind. A bullet hit the side of his wooden crate, sending splinters into the air as he ducked back and swore. He had no doubt in his abilities, Stomper in hand, but even a single bullet against a man like himself would most certainly hurt.

He took the risk, standing up in a sudden motion and firing.

One two three four. All went down, bullets lodged neatly in their eyes. He popped the cylinder, quickly reloading and bringing his arms back up, searching for more men, if any, on the docks. There were none, at least none close enough to get a clean shot at him. Wasting no more time, he gave a final look-around and ran back down the deck. Drat these royal knights in their shining armor! What extraordinary thing did they have against the mighty Reaver that they would leave their posts and go after him personally? Honestly, they just had to disrupt his return to Albion, hadn’t they?

All he’d wanted to do was head down through the marshes and get his deal over with. But of course, as soon as he’d pulled into the docks, they’d immediately stopped them in the middle of docking and stated that he was ‘under arrest’ or some ridiculousness. Like that would’ve stopped him. Instead, he’d promptly shot them both in the stomachs, thinking the manner over with.

Sadly, there were more of them. His manor had been confiscated, and these arses were boarding his ship. HIS SHIP, of Aurorian design! Had they no respect? He had no choice but to kill them, now that they were on his ship and were firing at him. Shame, really. Good guardsmen were hard to come by, and whoever had sent these bums had really invested in their nice armor.

He ended up behind one of the primary masts. Taking a quick moment to catch his breath, he peered around and assessed the situation. Three on the upper deck, one with a rifle, two with swords; five on the lower deck, two with pistols, two with swords, one disarmed. He calmly shot one in the neck, and they went down, armor glittering in the summer sun.

He was rudely interrupted by a bullet in the back of his shoulder. He hissed, then, annoyed, spun around and blasted the man in the neck, not going for his normal clean approach in his frustration. His friend was next, and he felt a sense of pleasure as their bodies both dropped to the floor.

Soon, the rest of the deck was cleared, his men making quick work of the flashy guards. With a light huff and smile, he wiped some blood off his cheek with his thumb, holstering his Dragon Stomper. The whole kerfuffle had taken less than five minutes. “Well then. Now that that’s that, let’s dock ourselves in, shall we?”

“CAPTAIN!”

He let out a haughty sound, feeling the blood from his shoulder wound drip down his back and shirt as he turned to the upper deck. “Oh, what is it now?” He was getting rather annoyed at these interruptions.

“Look!”  He followed the brute’s finger and saw, upon the port, cannons being set up. And aimed at his ship.

Anger filled his veins, along with a dark, cold sort of fear. Honestly, they were just trying to spite him now. But he couldn’t protect his ship from the likes of those cannons, not at this close of range. Keeping his nonchalant air up as best as he could, he waved to the first mate, even if some of his frustration leaked into his voice as he spoke. “Well then? Get us out of here!”

 

* * *

 

He found it fitting, somehow, that the place Sparrow resided was in was Bowerstone Cemetery. He could’ve lived anywhere in Albion that he desired, and yet he close to stay in the graveyard.

Truth was, he found comfort amongst the dead. It was quiet and dull there, amidst headstones and the looming trees, like a soft grey blanket that he could hide in. There were no judging stares, no false conversations with the people six feet under; just a sort of silent honesty. He didn’t need to hide how he felt there: pretty darn broken.

Along with that...he partially counted himself one of them. Dead, that is. He had good evidence that he’d been dead several times in his life already. He’d been killed by Lucien- twice- and been shot, stabbed, choked, and blasted into oblivion more times than he could count. He had the scars, and the memories, to prove it. Sparrow was very much dead many times over. So he felt like he was in good company.

There weren’t many dead to bury nowadays (which was also his job now, as the gravekeeper had eloped with the undead Lady Grey quite shortly after discovering Sparrow was living in the mansion), which he supposed was good. But he dug their graves as best he could, neat little six by two holes to put boxes with corpses in. He could at least respect their final resting place.

When he wasn’t doing that, and wasn’t occupied by sulking or other ‘Heroic’ jobs, he tended the flowers. They were scattered around the Cemetery, mostly by the mansion, and a few by the more respectable graves. They were little bursts of purple, blue, yellow, red, white, interrupting the dullness of the whole place. He saw that they were growing alright, watering the healthy ones and replacing the dying ones.

(No roses, though. He’d ended up tearing them all up in his first week residing there, and had gone to bed early with his hands bleeding.)

They were such delicate little things. So small, so colorful, so… killable. He occasionally entertained himself by plucking one of them from their stalk, preferably the ones with many, many petals, and sitting down with it. He then, slowly, deliberately, plucked the petals off, counting each one and letting it drift to the ground. It was calming, in a sadistic way, but what would he care? He’d already taken so much life, what was one flower on the piles and piles of dead?

Today he was too nervous to sleep and too tired to work, so he leaned idly against a tree, watching the path to Bowerstone. He was hoping to….well, he wasn’t too sure what he was hoping for. Maybe to see when Garth and Hammer were coming. Maybe that they wouldn’t show up at all, and when the sun set he could go back inside and burrow himself away, preferably with a lot of alcohol. He’d need it to get rid of this stress.

They arrived at about 11. Sparrow, thanks to his position, saw them first. He recognized Hamm- Hannah? Hannah right away: her hair was fiery red as always, and her hammer was a dead give away. Besides, what other women could have the muscle mass she did? Garth, though, caught him by surprise. He was wearing strange garb, the likes he’d never seen before, along with a nice jacket.  _ Must be Samarkandian,  _ he thought.

He got a few moments to observe them before Hannah spotted him. Her face lit up, and she shook Garth by the shoulder, pointing at Sparrow. The gypsy waved, giving what he hoped was a smile and not a grimace.

He blinked, and they were next to him, Hannah having the biggest grin possible to humanity. “Sparrow! Man, if it isn’t good to see you.” She caught him off guard by squashing him in a hug (warmth blossomed in him) before setting him down. She still had the dreadlocks that she’d sported all these years, but they were tied back intricately, keeping them out of her eyes without the use of a headband. She also had a few more lines across her face; not that they marred her beauty in any way. “You would not  _ believe _ how awkward the walk here was. Sir Brilliant over here didn’t say a word.”

“I was fine with silence,” Garth said. Oddly enough, he looked like he hadn’t aged a day. Put him back in his old clothes, and it would be just like five years ago. “You were the only one who made things awkward with your blabbering.”

“Hey! At least I was trying to make conversation like a decent human being!”

“It seemed fairly one-sided.”

“That’s because I-” She huffed and smacked a hand on Sparrow’s shoulder, making him  _ oof.  _ “You talk less than this guy!”

“That’s debatable.” Garth ignored her ongoing comments, instead turning his attention to Sparrow. “I told you we’d meet again. How are you doing?”

Here we go. The game began simply, with the first lie. He gave Garth a thumbs up and a simple grin. He must’ve done it right because Garth smiled back. “I’m glad. Hammer, let go of him.”

“It’s  _ Hannah _ to you,” she said, taking her meaty hand off his shoulder. He rubbed the spot. She had a strong grip, and it was sure to be sore for a few hours. Not that he really minded; it was a good sort of ache, one that reflected the ache in his chest. Shouldn’t he feel… happy, that they were here? All he felt was self-conscious and sad. When he realized that, it only made him feel worse. God, how self-centered was he? He was supposed to be glad they came to see him, not sad! That was the opposite of what was supposed to happen!

Someone poked him. “Helloooo. Earth to Sparrow?” He blinked, coming back into his own body to see Hannah staring at him. “You with us? Good. I was asking if you could be so kind as to show us your house. Y’know, the one that everyone says  _ is in the bloody graveyard? _ ”

Great, they’d been asking around about him. He really didn’t want to know what the people around town had said about him, so he didn’t ask. Instead, he just waved them along with a fake smile, starting to walk up the path to the mansion thing. He could hear the two behind him, a pair of footsteps trampling the grass. 

They didn’t make any conversation until they made it up the stairs. “I never pictured you as one to settle down, much less in a big place like this one,” Hannah said, staring up at the darkened building. He shrugged, getting out the key from his belt and opening the door.

When he’d first bought the mansion, it had been literally falling apart. The upstairs bedroom had a giant hole right through the floor, going all the way to the former grave keeper’s creepy science-lab basement. Rotting floorboards, murky windows, and mildew in carpets. It was a big, hollow shell that had once been grand--just like him. It had almost turned him right around, but for some reason, he stayed. He fixed it. Hacked and sawed and bought and mended until it felt a little less like it was falling apart. Almost like a real home. Almost.

“Nice place,” said Hannah, and that about summed it up.

 

* * *

 

“Why do you have a doll of me?”

Sparrow jolted, almost dropping the bottle of wine he was holding. “W-Wha?”

“There’s a doll on this dresser. Why is it dressed like me?”

The hero broke into a cold sweat. How was he supposed to explain that he’d got it at a shooting range? And it coincidentally looked exactly like Garth, down to the button? And that there were more like them, of Hammer and Reaver and Theresa? How was that not insanely creepy and unbelievable?

When he didn’t reply in two seconds, Garth brushed it off. “Never mind.” He let out a sigh of relief and took the drinks to the dining room. It was the largest room on the middle floor, with a huge bay window on the far side, letting in the daylight in place of candles. Hammer- Uh, Hannah and Garth were sitting at the table, Garth reading something while Hannah just idled herself with some food. (The Garth plush was still on the dresser top, but that wasn’t the main focus here).

He set the wine on the countertop, along with a few glasses. Hannah looked at the label on the bottle. “Erm, thanks but isn’t this a bit-”

He slid her a bottle of ale.

“Ah, that’s more like it!” She took the drink, popped it open, and started chugging it down so fast he was almost a little worried. He probably would’ve been, if he hadn’t known Hannah in the past. Garth just looked a tad bit disgusted, then poured some wine for himself, as did Sparrow. He would need the liquid if he was to unwind enough to talk with his allies. The degrading thoughts were threatening to return.

There were a few minutes of silence before Hannah set down her empty bottle. “I suppose we should tell you why the ‘ell Theresa sent us here. I mean, it’s been a while, right?”

He nodded, trying not to let his sadness show. Five years, and not a single letter. He didn’t really blame them.

“Well, we don’t really know.” He blinked in surprise as Hannah leaned forward. “She just told us that this was important and that we needed all four heroes.”

_ “Including _ Reaver,” Garth added, not sounding too pleased.

_ So… you trek all the way here? Without asking why? _ His head tilted.

“Don’t gimmie that look!” Hannah replied. “You  _ know _ how Theresa is! We kept asking and she ne’er gave us a straight answer! It was all ‘heroes’ this and ‘the fate of what is to come’ that…”

“Those were not her exact words.”

“Do I look like I bloody care?!” She gave an overdramatic sigh. A piece of Sparrow was glad that she still had her fire, her spite, even after her time with the Northern monks. The fact that she hadn’t changed too much made him feel at home. Comforted, almost. Hannah turned to him, looking serious. “You see what I had to deal with on my way here? So please come back with us, y’know, to make it worth it?”

Sparrow could hear her joking with her words, but there was also a pleading sense to them, as if she was scared he wouldn’t come with. He almost chuckled. He didn’t have a choice, did he? He’d have to come along, lest Theresa never leave him alone. Not to mention, it would probably make Hannah sad. At least at first, before she realized how much he had changed in his absence. She wouldn’t find the Sparrow she’d become friends with.

He was suddenly painfully aware that Garth was staring at him. He gave the mage a questioning look. Garth dropped his gaze soon after. Hm.

Sparrow stood up, making the two heroes look up at him. He stretched, mentally steeling himself. He was going on an adventure. He couldn’t hole up when he went. He would have to pretend he was happy the entire time he was there. He would have to be one hundred percent in front of Hannah, Garth, Theresa, and whoever else they came across. And for how long? A few days? Weeks? Months? Longer? Who knows?

His bones ached. A long, long stretch of facades and exhaustion was at his doorstep, he could feel it. But there was nothing he could do about it, not here, not now. It was time to be a fucking hero, just like everyone wanted him to be. He dreaded the days ahead.

He grinned widely, looking at his two old allies.  _ So, when do we leave? _


	3. Chapter 3

Sparrow didn’t sleep well that night. His fear manifested itself in his dreams, taking the shape of old men holding pistols and black-haired demons that he sincerely hoped he wouldn’t recognize. He woke up twice, drenched in sweat, before accepting that this wasn’t going to be a night where he got any good sleep. 

He squinted at the clock. 2:28 ish. Damn. That was an acceptable time to get up, yeah? It was technically morning. He got out of bed, the last tremors from the nightmares ebbing from his hands.

He had really hoped that he’d get a good night’s sleep tonight. He realized that he wouldn’t be able to nap on the journey to Bower Lake, so he’d wanted to at least have some energy to start off with. But with everything that had happened that afternoon, he guessed it was too much to ask for.

The stairs didn’t creak under his weight, and he snuck past the guest room without waking Hannah or Garth up (at least he hoped so), heading downstairs. It wasn’t light outside, and he didn’t feel like doing much, so he just went to a bookshelf, picked out one, and sat down with it.

...Ah, so he’d picked up Cold Lips. Well, there were worse, he supposed. A bit erotic, but a little drama never hurt anyone.  He settled into the plush chair, mind drifting away for hours...

* * *

  _“And one from Smith Moriss.” The lad, scrawny and dirty, wiped his hands across his forehead. “That’s all.”_

_“Thank you. Now scurry on.” A pitter-patter of feet later, and Randy was alone with Lord Sickley in the garden. The lord shuffled through the letters, looking uninterested, before turning down the path. “Walk with me, Randy.”_

_Ever silent and obedient, Randy came with. It was a wonderful spring day, and bees hummed pleasantly amongst the bushes he had yet to trim. But Lord Sickley did not release the man back to his duties when they walked past. Instead, he started to talk. “Randy, you are one of the longest standing members of the household, did you know that?”_

_He said nothing, just shook his head. Lord Sickley continued, scratching at his dark mustache. “Yes, you are. You have survived countless scandals and years of work under me. It is not a light position, I’ll have you know. You are a survivor, a loyal one.”_

_Randy listened, wondering where the man was going with this._

_“Knowing this, I’d like to hear your input. I have a decision to make, and want to know what the staff would think of such. SPARROW!”_

Sparrow responded to his name being screamed in the most logical way possible: by throwing the book at them.

“OW! Bloody-” Hannah held her nose as the book tumbled to the floor. “What was that for?!”

Guilt swamped him. He hadn’t meant to hurt her! It was instinct, an instinct that he really wished he didn’t have right now. He waved his hands in apology, picking up the book and hurrying towards her. Luckily, her nose wasn’t bleeding; it was just a little pink. “Damn gypsy, I’m not a bookshelf!”

_Sorry…_

“Yeah yeah, don’t gimmie those sad puppy eyes.” She sat down on a chair herself, before freeing her nose and leaning back with a sigh. She looked bedraggled, dreads fuzzy and eyes a bit unfocused. She must’ve woken up a moment ago. “Man...still can’t believe you fixed this place up. From what I saw last it wasn’t the nicest. Old gravekeeper guy- Vince or something? Creepy.”

He nodded in agreement, placing the book back in its place and stretching. His muscles were all sore. He often, mentally, felt the age that he looked: old and scarred. But right now, his spine felt like that of an elderly man. Maybe he should’ve picked a better position to read in…

“Wait a minute...Were you reading-” There was a soft thwap. “Ugh! What is with people and throwing things at me today?!”

“Good morning Hammer,” Garth said. Apparently, he had thrown the little Garth plush at Hannah, because now she was holding it. “And it’s because you snore.”

“I do not!”

_She does,_ Sparrow thought to himself, remembering that one time they hiked along the Bandit Coast to Rookridge. Garth finally seemed to notice him, and greeted him as well. “Good morning, Sparrow. Did you sleep better than I?”

He took a moment to remind himself that he’d gotten about 5 hours of nightmare-ridden rest last night. 

He nodded. _Yep_.

Breakfast was eggs with some sort of biscuits. He made enough for three and more, and Hannah seemed to enjoy it very much. Sparrow himself had no appetite, but he managed to stuff enough down his throat to make it seem normal. It was tasteless and cloying to him, but he had no choice. _Keep up an appearance, keep up an appearance..._

Garth and Hannah tried to make small talk, but it seemed to fall flat. Perhaps they were just tired of each other from their long trip yesterday. Or maybe Sparrow was just making it awkward by not talking.

"And then-" Oop, she was talking to him. Pay attention. "He pushed me off the bed!"

"You were breathing loudly and not waking up," Garth replied, taking a drink of java. Sparrow had plenty in the house. "So I had to resort to more violent measures."

"I was awake. I was just ignoring you!"

"It's a good thing I got your attention, then."

Hannah turned and looked at Garth with such an expression that Sparrow couldn't help but giggle. She turned to him. "Oh, don't you dare laugh."

He couldn't help it. He was an ass, he knew it, but she just looked so mad... He cackled into his eggs, chest protesting as he did. Hannah sighed in disappointment. "I'm surrounded by arses..." She picked up her plate (so polite) and put it on the kitchen counter to wash later (semi-polite).

"Barbarian," Garth muttered, looking just as annoyed as Sparrow would expect from the only 'sophisticated' man in the room.

* * *

While he was getting properly dressed, Sparrow made the mistake of looking into the mirror. He was putting on his shirt, tugged it on, and boom: his face was staring back at him. 

He wasn't a huge fan of his reflection. Sure, he wasn't horrible to look at, even with the white hair, but something about it just...made his stomach flip. His skin was tan, his eyes bright blue. His hair was long and silver (thanks, Reaver). Laughter lines around his mouth, crinkles near the eyes. The signs of a happy man. But there were also bags under his eyes, and scars maring his face: a testament to how broken he really was. 

Yeah, he thought badly of himself. Why not? He knew he could be better than he really was, so much better. He could be stronger, kinder, less caught up in his own hate and sorrows. He could be what everyone wanted him to be: a Hero.

He gave a smile, watching his face shift. He looked happy (he'd gotten good at this), but his eyes gave it all away. They seemed tired and dull. He let the smile fall and forced himself to look away, not wanting to descend into a fit of self hate.

_I don't have time for this today._ He shoved on his boots. _It's time to be a fucking hero, alright? Now do your job. Kick ass. Smile. You know the drill._

Hannah and Garth were waiting for him in the foyer. Hannah had her- no, wait, she had _a_ giant hammer. It wasn't the statue piece she had first had, he realized. It was different. It looked a bit Nordic, with tight carvings on its sides. Garth had a knife. That was it. Not that he needed any other weapons, really. Sparrow, himself, had his sword, and a slightly battered crossbow; primitive, he knew, but he couldn't stand guns, due to...reasons he was not thinking about at the moment.

"There you are!" Hannah exclaimed as he came downstairs. "We thought you'd fallen asleep or something."

“ _You_ thought," Garth corrected.

"Whatever. Come on, let’s get outta here." And with that, Hannah turned heel and started out. 

Sparrow chuckled, once again grateful that she had not lost her spunk. Garth was less happy, but he came out as well, sighing. "Let's get this behind us."

The Hero of Bowerstone was last out. He gave the house ( _sanctuary, safe, hide, stay stay stay-_ ) a last look, then locked the door. There weren't many people in the cemetery today, and the other two heroes didn't seem to want to talk yet, so it was pretty quiet. Birdsong wafted from a few trees, breaking the solemn mood of the summer morning. The Demon Door yawned, grunted at Sparrow as they passed by (Hannah nearly had a seizure), then promptly went back to sleep, a few chickens pecking at the ground around his beard.

"Bloody hell..." the monk said after they'd passed. "Never did get used to those things."

"Rather dull for conversation, but they are interesting." Garth threw in his own two pieces. "They've been around since the Old Kingdom times, from what I've heard from them."

"Is _everything_ about the Old Kingdom with you?"

Garth glared at Hannah. "It's my specialty."

"Oh yeah, I forgot, Sir Scholar."

"You'd be surprised how much the Old Kingdom contributed to our world," he continued, as if she hadn't said anything. "One simply has to keep their eyes open."

She said, "You mean _eye_."

"I have two of them, Hannah." He tapped the monocle on his left eye. "Otherwise this would be an eyepatch."

_You don't have an iris, though,_ Sparrow thought to himself, not making a sound. _It looks weird. Like Theresa's. Might as well not have an eye at all._

A bit of walking later, and they were surrounded by houses and brick road. Unfortunately, that meant that Hannah, Garth, and Sparrow caught the eye of some of the townsfolk, who had just woken up. Well, Hannah was probably fine with it, but Sparrow was starting to doubt himself already.

" 'Ello, Sparrow!" a guard- Otis, if he remembered correctly- chirped, raising a hand in a sort of salute. Sparrow waved back, not wanting to seem rude. "Up a lil earlier, are ya?" Sparrow did have a...habit of poor sleep schedules. And waking up issues. He ignored the sting and shrugged, and the guard laughed, turning to Hannah and Garth. "Morning, fellas!"

"Morning, constable," Hannah said, seeming a bit amused with the man's perkiness.

"Good morning," Garth said, less amused but still polite as one could be at this time.

The next people to spot him were a pair of ladies, dressed in petticoats and hats and browsing an Old Town stall. A small boy was between their legs. Sparrow secretly hoped they were lesbians, because they were definitely holding hands. One noticed him and turned red. "O-oh. Good morning, erm, Sir."

He cringed a bit internally as the other woman’s face lit up, and the boy between them stared at him, awestruck underneath his straight bangs. He quickly waved, flashing them a smile that made the less timid woman squeal, before hurrying on. A guilty feeling filled his stomach, which was already a bit upset from breakfast. He felt bad that their idol was such a mess.

He was almost out of Old Town- a few waves, a smile or two to keep passerby happy- when he heard a happy scream. He turned to see a little girl jumping at him from a bench. He panicked, catching her before she hit the ground. She giggled, giving him hellos, and then there were more coming at him. 

Two girls latched onto his legs, one with a toy gun, talking happily up at him with wonder in their eyes. They all had twin braids and brown eyes, giving the impression that they were sisters. He barely caught what they were talking about, the sound going right past his ears as he held the first in his hands. 

He put the girl down on the ground ("Awwwwwww...") before there was a " _Raaaaaa_ !" And another child _jumped on his face._ On his face! His hair was yanked by little boy fingers scrabbling to get purchase, shouting in his ear. " _Hi!_ My name's Alex! My mom says that I shouldn't go near you but Elsie and Jude got to-"

He grimaced at the loud, un-pubertized voice, trying to look past the kid's elbow and see what was going on. Another small body thumped into his legs, and the talking increased. 

Oh god. He was going to be smothered by children.

A chuckle, then laughter popped out of his throat, surprising himself, as he tried to get a little boy (he'd jumped on his arm) off of him, along with one on his leg. There were at least four on him, not including the ones around him trying to get his attention. If he were not a Strength Hero, he might've fallen over. Instead, he found himself laughing like an idiot, grabbing kids by their scruff like kittens and setting them down on the ground, only for more to climb up him. The kids seemed to think it was a game, climbing back up him and squealing as he spun around, trying to grab them.

Faintly, he heard Hannah laughing her ass off, and a couple adults as well, though some were more concerned than others. He could only imagine what he looked like from the outside, flailing around and covered with children.

"Alright, that's enough." A few kids were plucked off by Hannah and placed down. "Get offa 'im, he's got places to be!"

A couple of the kids whined, but they got off. Most of them, at least. One was still clinging onto his shoulders, not moving until her mother started calling her angrily. She gave him a hug, then slid off, shouting "coming!" to her Ma.

Hannah gave a laugh that was mixed with a sigh. "Well, that was something. Little gremlins really like you, huh?"

He nodded. He supposed they did. A misguided effort, but there was something...uplifting about having kids try and tackle you. He felt a mix of emotions about it as Garth yelled at them to "hurry up!" If he made them feel that happy, gave them hope, well then he supposed that was a good thing. Still, he felt his stomach sink at the looks he got from a few parents. Disapproving and mistrustful.

* * *

“Hullo, Sparrow. Hammer. Fine sir. Where you off to?”

He was surprised that Guard Jones recognized Hannah, but not Garth. Hadn’t Garth lived in Bowerstone...before the Spire? And wasn’t Hannah a monk turned warrior turned monk? So why recognize her?

Hannah filled the dumb silence for him. “Off ta Bower Lake, Jones,” she replied, shifting her oversized hammer. “We needed Sparrow ‘ere for some Hero business.”

Jones (probably the guard’s name, Hannah didn’t call random people ‘Jones’) did a double take at Sparrow and Garth, then quickly tipped his hat. “Oh, oh course! I’m sure you three will be alright, but I’m supposed to warn outgoers.”

“Warn them about what?” Hannah asked. 

“Wolves. Whole lots of them on the roads recently. Almost unnatural. Normally they don’t attack travelers, but…”

“We encountered some on the way here,” Garth said, his voice low as ever. “Don’t worry. We can handle them.”

“Alright. Then good luck to you all!” He shoved down the lever that controlled Bowerstones main gate. They swung open, revealing the path down into the valley and into the plains and trees. Sparrow felt his heart clench, for one reason or another.

When he’d been standing in place for a few seconds too long, Hannah nudged him on the back. He summoned his courage, and started through the gate, onto the path, past the guards, into the open air and sky.

It was empty, and there was nowhere to hide. He was exposed to the world. The only thing that he could hide behind out here, with his fellow heroes and the entirety of Albion, was his grin and false heroism. He prayed it would be enough.

The three walked down the path, away from Bowerstone’s walls, and onwards to meet Theresa.

  



End file.
